


mirror my malady, transfer my tragedy

by farseersfool



Series: FHR [1]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Relationship Study, content warnings in the author's note but there's nothing graphic here, gratuitous second person, ortega POV, transmasc sidestep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farseersfool/pseuds/farseersfool
Summary: The appeal of mutually-assured destruction.
Relationships: Ricardo Ortega/Sidestep
Series: FHR [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651660
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	mirror my malady, transfer my tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> I can't seem to manage working on my novel, so here's an Ortega character study, or at least my interpretation of him. This is highkey about my Sidestep, Luca, but he's never named here so project away. Title from [Wolf Like Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j1-xRk6llh4).
> 
> Content warnings: non-graphic allusions to or discussion of: sex, addiction, sexual assault, suicide, self-harm.

It was a stupid, sentimental, impulsive decision you made in your grief-stricken haze. His name: small, stark black lines against your brown skin. You remember the way it had stung in those first few days, a tiny open wound on your hip, but that pain felt _good_ compared to the crushing weight of loss and guilt.

The tattoo has faded in the seven years since then, the edges blurred slightly, but it’s still there, still legible. Still a constant reminder.

He was never supposed to see it. You’d gotten it done in the wake of his death after all. It was something for you, for your eyes alone. You thought there would never be anyone else after him. And in some ways, you were right. Eventually, when the edges were less raw, you’d tried to get back out there, but you kept coming up with reasons why it would never work out with the people you went home with. Excuses, lies you would tell yourself as to why you couldn’t seem to form that connection. They all came down to the same thing: none of them were _him._

But things changed, and he’s back. A little older, a lot more haunted. You suppose you must look the same to him. But maybe not. You know he doesn’t read you as well as he thinks he does. You don’t have to be a telepath to pick up on that. 

There’s a privilege, you think, in being able to keep secrets from him. It’s an invasion of privacy, he’d explained once, long ago, with a look of distaste on his face, to dig around in someone’s head, but when they’re thinking something _really loud,_ it’s damn near impossible to keep it out. And you know there’s more to it than that. It’s the same principle he used when he was Sidestep--use those surface thoughts to know where not to be in a fight. And the rest of the time, use them to know what not to say to someone. Always so cautious, so guarded, that any revelation must be carefully weighed against the danger of trusting someone else with even the smallest sliver of himself.

He can’t do that with you, but still, he’s trusted you with so much. Puzzle pieces, hints and fragments, nothing that you can use to paint a complete image, at least not without filling those gaps with your own assumptions and expectations, but you’ll take what you can get. And it’s only fair, after all. There’s plenty that you don’t want him to know, either.

His name tattooed on your hip barely scratches the surface. You’d very nearly forgotten about it when you invited him over for dinner. And it had been driven further and further from your thoughts, your mind and body focused on him, only on him, his hands in your hair and his mouth hot on your own. You hadn’t thought about much then, other than how you wanted this, wanted him. 

You hadn’t expected it would go beyond that, not really, and you’d never push him, but he’d surprised you. First, with the revelation that he hadn’t always been considered a man. Another puzzle piece slotting into place, that. He’d been shaking as he told you, a resigned tone to his voice, as if he fully expected to be kicked out. As if it would change anything. You’re not sure there’s anything he could tell you that would turn you against him.

Still, you were glad he couldn’t read your thoughts then, couldn’t know how hungry you are to understand the whole of him, how everything he chooses to share with you is another hit of a drug sweeter and more addictive than anything you’ve ever taken. That surely would have sent him running, even if he hadn’t earlier, when you’d told him you love him. And that had been enough of a risk.

He hadn’t said it back, of course. You’d never expected that he would, not even hoped, really.

But he’d wanted you, too. And you’d take that.

You’d led him to your bedroom, feeling much less confident than you were acting. His eyes were on you, bright grey and avid, his face trying--and failing--to make him seem casual, collected, like this was no big deal to him.

You remembered the tattoo as you were stepping out of your pants, and were glad that he’d insisted the room be dark. You could tell him you love him, but there would be _questions_ about this, and you’re still afraid he’ll bolt if he realizes exactly how much he means to you. How much he’d always meant to you. 

Well, no matter. You’re pretty sure he didn’t notice it. His eyes weren’t exactly on your hip once you’d stripped down completely, and then the lights were out. You felt like you were stripping away his defenses with every layer of fabric, and when your hands were finally on his skin, warm and ridged with scars and _real,_ he’d come apart. He was like something feral, so starved for closeness and affection, but overwhelmed by the reality of it. You remember wondering if anyone had touched him like this before. Of course, he would tell you later that no one had. Not on his terms, at least, and that’s something you still can’t think about, not without electricity surging unbidden from your mods as you clench your teeth in rage. Another puzzle piece.

You haven’t been able to get him out of your head, the taste of him, the small, broken sounds he’d made, muffled against your pillow, your shoulder, your throat. You respect him and his needs, even if you’re not quite sure you understand them, but… god, you wish you could have seen his face when he came. 

You’ve got to stop thinking about it, though, at least for now. You’re in your office--the private one--and you haven’t managed to get any work done all day. You need to focus. There’s more going on in this city beyond your love life. You pick up one of the files you’ve been trying to read through for clues, and put it down again immediately when your phone buzzes. 

Speak of the devil. He’s sent you a text: _Busy? Hungry._

You smile. He insists on using an ancient flip phone, so his texts are always like this. It’s more secure, he insists. You teased him that it was an excuse not to answer your texts, what with it being such an ordeal to type anything out on those old phones. He’d smirked at that, but hadn’t denied it. It had almost felt like the old days. Before whatever had happened to him in the years you’d thought him dead. Before you burst into that apartment, wrestling the gun away from him where he’d had it pointed to his head. Before you hadn’t been able to save him, even then, and you could only watch as he went through the window. 

That’s a cheery thought. You put it aside, and answer the text by calling him.

“I’m not busy, and I could eat,” you say when he picks up.

“Good, because I’m in the lobby,” he replies, and hangs up.

Well. That’s cheeky. But fair; you’ll always make time for him. Better get a move on, then. You take one last look at all the work you were supposed to get through today, sigh, and get up. Your back spasms when you straighten it out, but it’s a familiar pain, and you grit your teeth and bear it. There’s only so much modding the body can take, you’re afraid you’ve reached your limit. You’re glad he stopped by to see you. It’ll be a good distraction, keep you from reaching for anything stronger.

You grab your keys and wallet and head downstairs, and the smile on your face when you see him isn’t feigned. He’s dressed in his customary layers despite the heat, but the button-down shirt has a bold pattern, and his pants are well-fitted. He looks good. You’re not sure why he decided to change his style, but at least you’re not _quite_ vain enough to think that it’s for you. 

“Couldn’t stay away?” You tease, leaning down to kiss him. He lets you give him a peck on the lips before sidling away. He’s never liked public displays of affection, so you don’t follow.

“Nope, just hoping for a free lunch,” he answers. 

“Anything for you,” you acquiesce easily. 

“Don’t be gross,” he says with a roll of his eyes, but he can’t hide the flush that rises to his cheeks, light brown skin reddening prettily. 

In unspoken agreement, you both head toward the door and out into the blazing sunlight. He lets you take the lead, so you start walking to a bistro a few blocks from HQ. It has an elaborate dessert menu, and you’d thought of him immediately the first time you’d stopped in.

Of course, that had been over a year ago, when he’d still been dead, as far as you knew. Time enough to make up for that now, you think, looking over at him. He’s watching a dog on the other side of the street, but he glances over at you before you can wipe the soft, fond smile from your face.

“What?” He asks, brows furrowing.

“Nothing, just you,” you say.

“I told you not to be gross,” he complains, but he doesn’t turn away from you quite in time to keep you from seeing the answering smile that graces his face. It’s something fragile and genuine, something to be treasured.

You arrive at the restaurant and get seated, and you finally get a chance to look at him more closely. 

“I hope you know, you’re not getting out of here without buying me dessert,” he says, eyes on the menu.

You sigh, pretending to be aggrieved, as if that wasn’t the reason you’d brought him here in the first place. “I guess I should have expected that.” A pause, you looking at his bowed head and hunched shoulders. “How are you?” You ask, changing the subject. There’s a nervous energy in the way he’s moving, now that he has to sit still. Something on his mind?

“Hm?” He looks up, and you pointedly look to where his fingers are tapping on the table. They go still. “Oh, too much caffeine this morning,” he dissembles. You resist the urge to snort with disbelief; he drinks the kind of energy drinks that would give a horse a heart attack on a regular basis. You’re about to point this out when he cuts you off preemptively.

“What about you?” He asks, flipping the conversation onto you. “It looked like you were limping a bit; get in a fight I didn’t hear about?”

You do snort at that, but it’s half-humor, half-bitterness. “Only with my own body. Like you always remind me, I’m getting old.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes, pain and concern, that makes you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on. You’ve made a point not to mention the chronic pain around him, or pretty much anyone, but he’s observant, even if he can’t read your mind.

“Maybe it’s time to think about retiring,” he suggests, his voice quiet. It doesn’t have the sardonic venom this usually comes with. 

You don’t have a clue what you’d do with yourself if you weren’t working. And that combined with your unfinished business, your vendettas… Luckily, you’re saved from having to explain this yet again by the waiter, coming over to take your order. 

But he doesn’t drop the subject. “I just don’t want to see you hurt again, Ricardo.” There’s something painfully earnest, almost desperate about the way he says this.

And with that goes any chance of playing it off, or making a joke. That sincerity demands reciprocation. So you’re quiet for a long moment, and at length, all you can say is, “I can’t. Not yet.”

His mouth twists like he wants to say more, but he swallows down the words, throat working around the forced silence.

But you’ll both hold your tongues for now, and keep your own secrets, even if they’ll hurt you in the long run. It’s something you have in common, that self-destructive streak. You won’t quit the Rangers, you keep throwing yourself into danger, even as your body starts to fail from the years of fights, the broken bones and scars, and of course the mods. And he… well, you felt the scars on his arms when you were in bed together. Those weren’t battle injuries. Or.. they were, but of a different kind. You hadn’t said anything at the time, and you don’t plan to now. Just like he hasn’t said anything about the pills in your bathroom, if he’d noticed. What a fine pair you are.

“Maybe I’d be safer if I had my partner back,” you say at last, trying to lighten the mood. “He saved my ass more times than I can count, back then.”

“Probably you would be… but unfortunately he’s _retired_ ,” he says, going along with it.

“Unfortunately?” You raise an eyebrow at that.

“For you,” he clarifies, and grins with dark humor. “I’m not putting the suit back on.”

“You say that now…” You tease.

“I’ll tell you what: I’ll do it when you retire, and not a moment sooner.”

“Well, that defeats the whole purpose, doesn’t it?” You grin, and he jumps when your foot finds his ankle under the table.

The food arrives, and you shift to easier topics while you eat. He tells you about the dogs he saw on the bus on his way over to HQ, and you tell him about an interview you’d had to give yesterday. 

He picks at his food, then all but inhales the chocolate tart he’d ordered. You shake your head fondly, having learned better than to think criticizing his eating habits will get you anywhere.

Despite his supposed pretense for coming to see you, he tries to pay for his food, but you insist. A free lunch is what he’d been promised, and it’s what he’s getting.

“I don’t suppose you’re interested in coming by my place again? I can cook.” You ask, as the two of you walk vaguely back in the direction of HQ. 

“Lunch _and_ dinner?” he asks, a deflection.

“And dessert, if you want it,” you reply with a saucy wink, and the way his face colors lets you know that he understood you don’t mean food.

“Get your mother’s tres leches recipe and we’ll talk,” he mumbles, looking away.

“Oh, unfair,” you exclaim, “You _know_ she guards that recipe with her life.”

He smirks, then falls silent for a time. “I’d like to come over,” he says at last, the look on his face and the tone of his voice suggesting a _but_ that never comes. 

“Don’t sound too eager,” You can’t stop yourself from saying, and you smile to play it off as a joke.

He sighs. “It’s not that I don’t want y… to see you, it’s…” but he doesn’t finish this thought either.

“Well, I’ll start cooking around six. You know where to find me.” That’ll give you a few hours to sit in your office, pretending to get work done, pretending like he’s not consuming your thoughts these days. 

“Alright,” he says simply, softly. Then, with more resolve, “I’ll see you later, then.”

“You headed out?” You ask.

“Yeah, work,” he says vaguely, and gestures in the direction of the cab pickup spot. You don’t try to kiss him with all these people around, he’d never let you, but you can’t resist taking his hand, squeezing gently before he goes. He looks down, but for a moment he holds onto your hand tightly, like it’s a rope and he’s scared of falling. Maybe a more apt comparison than you meant it to be, you think as he leaves your side to hail a taxi.

For you, too. A rope can save a man from drowning, or he can use it to hang himself. It’s not so different from loving someone. Giving yourself to them, and trusting them to be gentle. He may not know all your secrets, and you certainly don’t know all of his, but he has your heart in his hands nonetheless. You wonder if he understands that. That you’ve given him more than enough rope to hang you. That he could destroy you effortlessly.

Because you’re not sure you could take losing him again.

The cab pulls away and around the corner, out of sight. You put your hands in your pockets and point your feet in the direction of HQ. 

You wish you didn’t have an impending sense that this, what you have with him now, what you’re trying to build, is just a castle in the air, and it’s all going to come crashing down. That one day, it’ll all be out in the open, and that will change everything. Mutually-assured devastation.

But, you’ve been wrong about these things before. You can only hope you are this time. Either way, you have this for now, and you shouldn’t steal tomorrow from today with your worries.

And even if this is destined to end badly, you still wouldn’t change the path you’re on.

He’s carved into your soul, more indelibly his name inked on your hip. If someone’s going to destroy you, you’d rather it be him, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm on tumblr at birdadjacent and twitter as bird_adjacent.


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